


A Taste of Loneliness

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, Incest, Kink: Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Kink: Messiness and markers of arousal, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:12:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln would stay for one hour, one night or one week. It didn’t make such a difference. (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentflux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentflux/gifts).



> **Kinks and prompt:** Messiness and markers of arousal (mussed hair; flushed cheeks; swollen mouth; displaying bite marks or hickeys; clothes in disarray; sprawling. Absence makes the heart grow fonder / So damn lonely

Peach and come.

This was what his mouth tasted like after... _after_ , that night. Peach and come. Bitter-sweet. The peach Lincoln had fed him from the tip of his fingers, the come Lincoln had fed him from—

Peach and come, and loneliness.

Lincoln didn’t do this on purpose. Not purposefully on purpose, anyway. He just wasn’t like that, and somehow it made it worse because if he had been like that, Michael could have taken that whole crazy thing for what it was and got over him.

Or maybe — probably — Michael was deluding himself. Peach and come and loneliness were still better than the alternative, than an absolute _lack_ of Lincoln.

It was a moot point anyway, because Lincoln was not like that. Lincoln wasn’t deliberately careless or absent; he didn’t even think he was careless or absent. He disappeared for days or weeks, sometimes months, and eventually showed up at Michael’s door looking like something the cat would have dragged in, but he was just being Lincoln.

Michael wasn’t sure whether he loved him for or despite what he was.

He always opened the door. Desperately, even more eagerly because he hadn’t seen, touched, kissed, fucked Lincoln for days or weeks, sometimes months. He ended up on his knees, on all fours, on his back; he ended up with his lips swollen from kissing and sucking; he ended up with his eyes hooded from exhaustion and pleasure and his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat; not only his, the sweat. Sometimes he ended up with his fingers digging into Lincoln’s hips, his cock deep inside Lincoln, and Lincoln grinning lazily at him — until Lincoln stopped grinning and started groaning and losing it.

Lincoln would stay for one hour, one night or one week. It didn’t make such a difference, because Michael lost all sense of time when his brother was around — never ever long enough. He clung to him, in those moments. He offered his neck, a shoulder or a buttock to bite or squeeze too hard, hoping for a mark or a bruise that would be evidence that Lincoln had been here.

The mark or the bruise only enhanced how so damn lonely the next night would feel, without Lincoln.

Earlier tonight, Lincoln had come inside him and grunted with satisfaction. Michael had sighed and closed his eyes in pleasure; not _his_ pleasure, but the one of receiving Lincoln’s. His own release did roll in close, fast and messy. Almost mortifying how desperate he sounded, except for the part where it made Lincoln’s eyes shine brighter, his lips softer against Michael’s. And later, Lincoln came a second time, a few droplets dripping onto Michael’s torso and the rest of it into his mouth, marring his lips and coating his tongue with the whitish substance. With a half-smile, Linc watched him gather the small beads that had landed on his collarbone and bring them to his mouth.

“That’s kinda raunchy for someone as neat as you, no?”

“I...” He stuttered. Lincoln’s hand was around his cock, trying and succeeding to coax a second orgasm out of him. “I sleep with my brother. Raunchy comes with the package.”

He got a vicious stroke for the _raunchy_ remark because he deserved to be punished for it, and a soft kiss because Lincoln needed to shut him up when he was saying this kind of thing.

The vicious stroke would have been enough to shut him up, really, since he came panting loud but inarticulate sounds and adding to the mess of fluids on his stomach and chest.

Lincoln didn’t stay the night. Lincoln didn’t like being reminded that he slept with his brother, and nothing reminded him like waking up next to Michael — he always had to be tricked into staying longer, or to be in a particular state of mind or mood to stay longer. And not this time. This time, he left while it was dark outside and Michael was still drowsy from sex and inappropriate tenderness. Michael didn’t know what time it was because it didn’t matter, because in Michael’s book, Lincoln never stayed long enough in the first place anyway, because Lincoln’s absence fueled Michael’s love and desire, and his presence never managed to quiet the fire.

He didn’t ask when he would see Lincoln again. Lincoln wasn’t the most reliable person so an answer could only lead to impatience in the best case, disappointment in the worst. He finished eating the peach Lincoln had started feeding him sometime between the first and the second time they’d fucked and watched his back as he dressed.

Peach and come, and his own semen drying on his skin. And the burning hope of next-time carving itself in his chest when the front door clicked shut.

END

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